


The Poor That Die

by RobinsonsWereHere



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AO3 needs more warnings honestly, Angst, Blood, Character Study, Contemplation of Suicide, Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It's very dark, Murder, Nat doesn't die, Panic Attacks, Starts pre-canon, Suicidal Thoughts, ends post-IW, lots of death, that's kinda the theme of the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 00:18:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18510073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinsonsWereHere/pseuds/RobinsonsWereHere
Summary: "When the rich go to war, it's the poor that die."-Old Russian Proverb(Natalia Alianovna Romanova spends most of her life very close to death. She is familiar with it. She uses it. But death is a fickle mistress, and sooner or later, her luck will run out.)





	The Poor That Die

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my "ideas" doc for a while, but I wanted to get it out before Endgame. One last warning: it's dark. Contemplations of suicide, panic attacks, blood, murder, violence. Don't read it if you don't want that.

**I.**

Natalia is nine years old when her world literally crashes down around her. She knows almost nothing of death, and then suddenly, she knows entirely too much. She knows that the bombs fell and the soldiers came and her parents ceased to be warm and loving because they ceased to be at all. She cries at the funeral, and she cries harder when the men who are too clean and emotionless to be soldiers take her away. They tell her not to cry, and this confuses her, because her parents, the only people she has in this world, are dead. Why would they tell her not to be sad?

She learns, when they cuff her to the bed and strike her every time she makes a noise, that they do not care that she is sad; they only care that she is loud. Natalia Alianovna Romanova becomes a very quiet little girl. She fears death, fears that it will come for her like it came for her parents.

**II.**

Natalia spends weeks locked in the room with a few other girls, and when she leaves the room, the transition is abrupt. They watch girls barely three years older than themselves tear each other apart with their bare hands. And then they’re in those same rings, fighting not to win but to survive. All around her, Natalia sees girls she recognizes, girls she knows, crumble and fall. Sometimes they crumple as bullets shatter their bones. Sometimes they wilt as their lives are choked out of them. Sometimes they simply disappear, and never return. She stops trying to get to know them, eventually. They will only become her targets, and familiarity will not help her then.

Death, Natalia learns, is common. It is all around her. She is learning to use it as a tool, she is learning to dole it out, and she is learning that if she is not careful (or even if she is, really, it only depends on what her instructors think of her, but she cannot say that aloud, it is treason to even think it) it will come for her. Still, she does not want it to. Something in her heart wants to survive.

**III.**

Natalia carries knives and guns and garrotes, but those are not the true weapons. _She_ is the weapon. She kills without restraint now, slashing throats and firing shots that paint her life red with blood. She has come a long way in her decade with the _Krasnaya Komnata._ She kills for them because she must, because that is how she will play her part in the world. In _their_ world.

Today she kills for them. Tomorrow, they might decide it is her turn to die. It does not matter. Death is necessary; she knows that now.

**IV.**

Natalia is shaking. Her whole body quivers, and she cannot stop it. She cannot hold still. Her stillness has been her saving grace for so many years, and now it is gone. The _Krasnaya Komnata_ has taken it from her, like they have taken everything else. They have taken her family and all prospects of making a new one. They have taken everything she knew, everything she believed, and replaced it with the lessons that make her the killer that she is. They have torn her very soul apart and put it back together, if they’ve given it back at all. Now she is only a weapon, forced to bring death to all but herself. She has had many targets who plead for their lives; they are fools. Can’t they see that death would be preferable? Can’t they see that there is nothing to life but to kill until you are lucky enough to die? Natalia sits on her bed, shaking with despair. She wishes she were dead. Dead people are so very still. Is that the way she will regain her stillness?

But she can’t even do that, can’t sever the threads that hold her to this world, because they will see and they will come running. She does not get to decide when her life ends, because it isn’t her life. It is theirs.

She is not Natalia Alianovna Romanova anymore. She is only the _chernaya vdova._

**V.**

The Black Widow stares into the eyes of SHIELD’s archer. He has his arrow at her throat, and he has already disarmed her. For the first time in her life, she legitimately cannot escape.

No. She’s been unable to escape the _Krasnaya Komnata_ for almost twenty years now. This is not the first time.

She waits, still as a statue. Her heart beats on in her chest, but other than that, she might as well be made of stone. She is too well trained to do anything but stand and accept her fate. It’s not as though she hasn’t wanted this for a long time. And yet, the archer does not shoot her. He approaches, still pointing the arrow at her. When he is just out of arm’s reach, he stops.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he says lowly, “but I think you’ll attack me if I let this arrow down. Can you not do that?”

She feels a glimmer of something she hasn’t felt in a long time. The Black Widow hasn’t felt anything in a long time, but she thinks this is surprise she feels now. As she continues to stare into his brown eyes, she realizes he wants an answer. _Can she not attack him?_ The _Krasnaya Komnata_ is not here. This is a simple assignment; they do not need to give her a handler for a three-day excursion to kill an enemy agent. But then again, he is her target. She doesn’t know if she could stop herself from slashing his throat.

“C’mon, you’re still a person, aren’t you?” He tilts his head, reminding her of a hawk trying to figure out what sort of animal is scuttling around beneath it. “You can’t be more than twenty-seven. You’re to young for this shit. We both are. Let’s get out of here.”

She is not a person. She is a weapon. A killer. How does he not know that? He came here to kill her, didn’t he? Why is she still alive? This sort of stalling is unprofessional.

“Okay, I’m gonna go for it. I’m gonna drop my bow and then I’m gonna lose all my other weapons, too, so don’t think I’m drawing on you, okay?” 

She would scoff if she wasn’t still frozen by instinct. Indeed, he drops his bow and arrow to the ground, but he only gets as far as ditching the Glocks in his thigh holsters (so he knows _something_ about weaponry) before the room busts into flames.

The Black Widow wakes in his arms as he carries her through the flaming rubble. She should snap his neck, but she doesn’t. Instead, she surveys the ruins; crushed bodies, burning bodies, flaming death all around her. It’s not unusual.

Apparently, her savior (oh, she hates the word, it fills her mouth with an acrid taste that rivals the smoke) does know she’s awake, because he speaks. “It hurts, doesn’t it? All of ‘em dead. I mean, I know they were criminals and all that, but still, they didn’t all need to die. It’s a shame.”

_A shame._

Death is not a shame. Death does not hurt. Death is a blessing.

Clint Barton does not seem to think so.

**VI.**

Natasha Romanoff is, quite frankly, in disbelief. Over the past few days, she’s dealt with aliens, met gods, and saved the city from destruction. And somehow, she’s survived. Only, there are so many others who haven’t.

She stretches out along toe cold concrete roof, staring at the sky. It’s hard to see stars in New York City, but she doesn’t mind. It’s not so much that she wants to look at something, but more that she wants to _not_ look. She is more human than she once was, and quickly Natasha is learning that being human means feeling pain. When she thinks of all the people who died because the Avengers couldn’t save them, because _she_ couldn’t save them, it feels like someone is taking a knife to her ribs. She closes her eyes, thinking of all of the people she watched fall, of their desperate screams and pleas for mercy. She had tried, she had tried so hard, but she couldn’t save everyone. There are people that are dead because of her. That has been true for years, but it feels different when she’d tried to stop their deaths instead of being the one to cause them.

Death, Natasha decides, is painful. She can do nothing but hope that it wasn’t painful for those who experienced it.

**VII.**

For the first time since her childhood, Natasha is consumed by an overwhelming panic. She’s seen death too many times before, but not on this scale. Not like this. So many people are gone that it seems like more than half of the universe. It’s certainly more than half of _her_ universe. She can see the flickering images of those still missing, on an alert system Bruce has rigged up. She can hear the beeping of the mysterious pager they’d found near Fury’s gun, Hill’s badge, and a pile of ashes. She can taste the sourness of regret in her mouth and she can smell the antiseptic of the lab, but she can’t feel anything except the buzz of horror and dismay coursing through her veins. It wasn’t supposed to end this way. There weren’t supposed to be this many dead. They should’ve… she should’ve…

Natasha doesn’t realize her legs have given out until she’s on the floor. Bruce crouches next to her. “Natasha, hey,” he says. “Hey, take deep breaths, okay? Just breathe.”

“I don’t want to,” she says hoarsely. “It’s too much… they’re all gone… I can’t…”

“Yeah, you can,” Bruce insists. “We’re the only ones left who can fix it. And we will fix it.” She stares at him, feeling tears track down her cheeks. He rubs her back softly, which she allows. She’s never been one for physical affection, but right now, the gentle reminder that there truly is someone else still here is welcome. She takes a deep breath.

“We gotta fix it,” she agrees, which is true. Even if she doesn’t see how she can carry on, she has to. She has to keep living, if only to avenge those who are gone.

Right now, she’s not sure the dead aren’t the lucky ones. Compared to this dusty, horrible world, death seems preferable.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think of my characterization of Natasha! I haven't written her for years. I'd love feedback, in a comment or at chiefkarenvick on tumblr :)


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